‘I remember that face you would make,
Just as I subtly stumbled through the door,
Into a room devoid of your light:
Not disgust, per se.
But close enough.
It’s the only face of yours I can see,
Burned with righteousness into my eyelids,
Reminding me of what I stole from you.
Of what I can’t pay back anymore.
Not that I could back then,
Nor would I have.
Just would have used it as an excuse to,
One more disappointing time,
Over to you.’
He tried to kill himself last week.
From despair, of course.”
“”How do you know to call it despair?””
“For he is alive and night is upon us.
Plus, he’s rich.”